Graffiti
July
26 2020
The
long freight train rumbles past,
steel-on-steel
squealing
around the curve.
All
the boxcars and tankers
are
bright with graffiti
and gaudily spray-painted tags,
anonymous
artists
all
over the continent
compelled
to leave their mark.
The
compulsion of art,
however
impermanent
however
nomadic.
Stopped
at
the level crossing
I
sit at the wheel and watch.
Not
a vandalized train
but
a beautiful canvas
scrolling
past my eyes.
There
are currently (July of 2020) Black Lives Matter protests
erupting in Portland Oregon. Which is notable in itself, since Oregon
is so overwhelmingly white. Most have been peaceful. Some activists
have sparred with police, lit fires, broken windows,and spray painted a Federal
courthouse with graffiti. Minor damage. Hardly a riot. In politically motivated authoritarian
theatre, the Trump administration has marshalled troops from various
Federal enforcement agencies (such as Homeland Security, Border
Patrol, the Marshal's Office, TSA) – under the pretext of
protecting Federal property, and arguing that local authorities are
not doing the job – dressed them in unmarked paramilitary outfits,
armed them heavily, and set them against the protesters. This has
only escalated a peaceful demonstration into violence. Meanwhile,
this unauthorized Federal police force is arbitrarily and illegally
detaining protesters.
So some
see the graffiti as expressions of freedom, individualism,
creativity, and beauty. Others see it as a dangerous sign of
disorder, lawlessness, and the rule of the mob. A threat to security
and stability. Even terrorism! I think this binary really reflects
the basic mindset of two worldviews, which in turn is a reflection of
the human temperament, as much biological as it is learned: either
liberal, tolerant, curious, and open to new experience; or
conservative, rigid, and inclined to conformity and order. (Perhaps a
binary. On the other hand, and even though I strongly self-identify
as liberal and progressive, I find some of both in me. So perhaps
better to say a continuum.)
The
first thing that comes to mind when I hear the word “graffiti”
are those gaudily painted freight trains. They strike me as movable
art: colourful, often beautiful, original, and mysterious. Who paints
them? Why? Do freight cars stay still that long? Are they reviled by
the railways, tolerated, or even secretly celebrated?
Clearly,
art is a human compulsion, and anything can become a medium. It seems
we can't help ourselves!
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